


Return and Revive

by CracklPop



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Bad Alpha Scott McCall (Teen Wolf), Coffee, Emissary Stiles Stilinski, FTH, Healthy!Derek Hale, M/M, Magical Stiles Stilinski, Pack Building, Peter Has Feelings, Small Business Owner Stiles Stilinski, Snark
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-14
Updated: 2020-08-14
Packaged: 2021-03-06 06:21:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,729
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25898893
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CracklPop/pseuds/CracklPop
Summary: Stiles moves back to Beacon Hills after college, to Peter's unexpected delight. At first, it looks like Stiles is just home to run a coffee shop, but soon Peter suspects that Stiles has more than amazing espresso planned for the town.
Relationships: Peter Hale/Stiles Stilinski
Comments: 72
Kudos: 840
Collections: Fandom Trumps Hate 2020





	Return and Revive

**Author's Note:**

  * For [fiversdream](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fiversdream/gifts).



> Dear fiversdream,
> 
> Sorry this took so long to complete! I hope you enjoy it! <3 <3 <3 Thanks again for the FTH love!

Overnight, the Beacon Hills Animal Clinic became Beacon Hills Books & Coffee. Peter, out for a run in the dewy, pre-dawn hours, stopped in his tracks and stared for a few minutes. 

As of the previous day, the building had housed five sick dogs, three anxious cats, and one enigmatic veterinarian. Peter eyed the new business warily, noting the cheerful signage and freshly scrubbed windows. The lights were on and Peter detected a single, human heartbeat inside. 

He made his way soundlessly around to the back and paused. The mountain-ash barriers were gone. Instead, as Peter expertly broke the lock and crept inside, he felt something tingle across his senses and realized he’d walked through the wards of a much more powerful druid than Alan Deaton had ever been. 

Genuinely concerned and assuming he’d lost the element of surprise, Peter let his claws out and burst through the door to the building’s main space. 

“You could have knocked,” said Stiles from the front of the room, where he stood by a bookcase with an open box in his hands and an expression of annoyance. 

“Stiles?” Peter gaped at him. 

“Obviously. And we’re not open yet.” 

“Aren’t you—didn’t you go—” Peter stopped talking to save himself some dignity.

“Yes. I went to magical grad school. Now I’ve returned in power to replace my predecessor. It’s pretty traditional.” Stiles shrugged.

“So you—” Peter tried to make a coherent sentence come out, feeling off-balance and resenting Stiles for it. “Is Deaton…”

“Retired now? Yeah.” Stiles cocked his head and a slow smile spread over his face. “Why? Did you think I killed him?” 

“Traditions,” Peter offered with his own shrug. “Do those things work?” He gestured to the coffee bar in the corner, where two gleaming, stainless-steel machines stood.

“Again: We’re not open yet.” Stiles turned his back to Peter and began to shelve books. 

“I know how to use an espresso machine,” Peter said. 

“That’s super duper,” Stiles replied, moving on from the books to start unpacking a box of what appeared to be meditation crystals and sage smudge kits. “But we’re still not open.” 

Peter lounged against a bookcase full of mystery novels and considered the back of Stiles’ head. He moved on from that to Stiles’ surprisingly broad shoulders and then his—

“Stop staring, Peter,” Stiles said without turning around. 

“I like the view.” Peter straightened and went to investigate the closest espresso machine. “So I take it you’re Scott’s emissary now?”

“Mmm,” Stiles replied. “If you break that, you’re going to need to replace it by seven a.m. I’m not opening with a non-functioning espresso maker.”

“Stiles.” Peter shot him a glance that was somewhere between wounded and offended. “Do I look like the kind of person who drinks drip coffee? I know my way around expensive, Italian machinery.” 

Stiles gave him an unimpressed look. 

“Make me a drinkable espresso macchiato.”

“Why sully my inevitable god shot with dairy?” Peter asked airily. 

Stiles narrowed his eyes, but the hint of a smile lurked at the corners of his mouth. 

“Okay, Peter. Let’s see this holy grail of coffee drinks.”

Peter loosened his shoulders and set to work, fighting off an unexpected bout of performance anxiety. He’d never had any complaints; there was no reason to assume he’d produce anything but perfection. Still, when Peter handed over the double shot, crowned with crema and steaming gently in its red ceramic demitasse home, he experienced a little flip in his stomach as he waited for Stiles to pass judgment. 

“Good,” was Stiles’ verdict. 

“Just ‘good’?” Peter demanded. 

“What, you want a job here?” 

“What exactly are you doing with this store, Stiles?” Peter asked, grinding more beans to craft his own drink.

“Making a living. Maybe you’ve noticed there isn’t a ton of industry in this town.”

“You couldn’t just take over the vet practice?”

“I don’t have a degree in animal medicine,” Stiles pointed out. “Whatever his shortcomings as a druid, Alan Deaton at least had the right credentials to vaccinate dogs.”

“And what do you have?” Peter wondered as he finished the coffee, enjoying the fruit of his labor with a satisfied hum. 

“Other talents.” Stiles’ eyes gleamed briefly before he ducked over to the sink to rinse out his cup. He then went back to work setting up the rest of his store, ignoring Peter with annoying ease.

Peter restrained his curiosity and left Stiles to start the rest of his day. He loped back to his house downtown, frowning in thought through his shower and still later when he stood in front of his closet. Peter didn’t spend a lot of time with Scott, but he was willing to bet that Deaton’s hasty retirement—and surely the vet truly was living a life of contemplative tranquility somewhere other than Beacon Hills and not fertilizing a nearby plot in eternal rest—hadn’t been part of any plan Stiles ran by Scott. 

But Peter had made it his policy not to seek out Scott’s company for anything less than an in-progress apocalypse, so he dismissed the thought. 

+

It was early summer, and with school out of session, the bookstore coffee shop quickly acquired regular clientele. Peter took to popping in at random times of the day, always ordering a drink and usually buying a book, as well. 

He noticed some of the regulars were more interested in Stiles’ small but carefully curated collection of mystical goods. From what Peter could see, Stiles was far better known in the magical community than anyone would expect of someone his age and relatively late awakening to power. 

In the time Stiles had been away at what he called grad school, Beacon Hills had slowly sunk into supernatural lawlessness. Right after their last, memorable year of high school, most of Scott’s pack had gone to undergrad, and Stiles had been no different. In fact, he, Isaac, Lydia, and Cora had all gone to UCSF, and come back to Beacon Hills fairly regularly to meet up with Scott and Derek. 

But once the pack had graduated from college, things took a turn. Lydia and Jordan Parrish eloped and stopped socializing as much with the pack. Scott began avoiding his longstanding weekly coffee chats with Sheriff Stilinski and started spending more time at the animal clinic. His speech became peppered with noble-sounding phrases about what it meant to be a true alpha. As far as Peter could see, being a Deaton-style true alpha involved allowing a steady stream of dangerous supernatural visitors to Beacon Hills without doing much to protect the inevitable human victims. 

Peter entertained himself by hunting the most obnoxious supernatural predators. As much as he enjoyed his lone-wolf vigilantism, he did occasionally wonder—resentfully, and usually when he was hauling a heavy body outside the town limits—why Scott’s true alpha rhetoric didn’t seem to increase his ability to protect the territory. 

The first month Stiles was back in town, Peter didn’t notice that the number of heavy bodies he was dumping outside the city gradually decreased. But by the second month, it was obvious. Something was keeping the dangerous, predatory supernatural population in check, and it wasn’t just Peter anymore. 

Curious, Peter expanded his patrolling runs in wolf form, going deeper into the preserve and making a wider circle around town. He saw no sign that Scott had taken a firmer grip on the reins of alpha control, and, in fact, he found a fair amount of evidence that suggested there were just as many supernatural visitors as there had been before, they just didn’t seem to be of the hazardous variety. Or, if they were, they didn’t allow their bloodlust free reign. 

One night, Peter ran by Stiles’s shop, slowing when he saw the lights were still on. He paused by the back door, his hackles rising when he noticed the unmistakable and vaguely _wrong_ -smelling alpha scent of Scott McCall. Stiles had allowed his wards to recognize Peter a while ago, so Peter adopted the shape of a man long enough to turn the doorknob, then sank back down into his wolf and padded silently into the back storage room. 

“…waited like you said, but still haven’t heard anything,” Scott was saying. Peter stopped outside the main store area, hoping the excellent ventilation system hid his scent from Scott until it was convenient for Peter to be noticed. Or Scott left.

“You said he sent you that postcard,” Stiles replied.

“Yeah. One postcard. That doesn’t seem weird to you?” Scott demanded. “And he never told me he was retiring. We had a whole…thing going. I mean, he was teaching me about how to work with him on raising energy from the territory. We talked all the time. Don’t you think he would have mentioned something like a major move to me?” 

“Deaton was a traditional kind of guy,” Stiles offered. “He knew when I came back that it was his time to move on. The territory only needs one magic worker. If there are two active druids, it can get confusing. Things can twist out of their true shapes. Energy gets distorted. Sometimes it ends up doing less for the land and more for the druids. It’s bad mojo, buddy. Deaton knew it.” 

“I guess,” Scott muttered. “But he didn’t say anything to me.” 

“You’re not a druid,” Stiles pointed out. 

“I guess it kind of hurt my feelings,” Scott said. 

“He sent the post—” 

“Yeah, the postcard was a shitty way to find out he was gone, sure, but I was talking about you, Stiles.” Scott sounded aggrieved. “I thought when you eventually got back, you’d be my emissary. I don’t get why you aren’t doing the same things with me that Deaton did.”

“What kinds of things?”

“You know, like with the energy rituals and stuff,” said Scott vaguely. 

“Energy rituals, hm?” 

“Deaton said because I hadn’t killed another alpha to become one, my status needed support from the land. I can’t kill people, Stiles. That’s not how being a true alpha works. This way I don’t have to give into being a…monster.”

“Do you feel any different, now that you’re not getting the rituals?” Stiles wondered. 

“I don’t know, maybe?” Scott sounded uncertain. “Deaton didn’t always tell me what I was supposed to be feeling.”

“Well, he was pretty overworked. I’m sure he’s getting the rest he deserves now,” said Stiles. “Let me settle in some more before we work out the whole emissary situation. It’s a big job.”

Peter heard them moving toward the front entrance. 

“You should get some sleep,” Stiles added, and Peter listened as they said good night and Stiles locked up. “Okay, Peter, you can come out now,” Stiles called once the shades were down and the door alarms set. 

“I don’t recall Talia doing any energy rituals with her emissary before Deaton. Or with Deaton, for that matter,” said Peter as he emerged from the shadowy back room, naked. He watched for signs of discomfort or embarrassment in Stiles, but couldn’t see any. 

“Yeah, probably not,” said Stiles. He was shelving books again. Wherever he’d been for the past year or so, it seemed to have cured him of any lingering human-type modesty. “If you get cold, there’s a sweater in my office.”

Peter ignored that and wandered around the store, picking up books that looked interesting— _A Treatise on the Properties of Mistletoe_ —and those that amused him— _Rabbits & Rutabagas: A Guide to Wolf-Human Harmony Through Food_—and thought about why Stiles hadn’t made himself Scott’s official emissary. 

“Derek’s a fan of that one,” Stiles offered, nodding at the cookbook in Peter’s hands. 

Peter glanced back down at the cover in surprise. 

“I’m not even sure how something like this would be published,” said Peter. 

“Well,” said Stiles, straightening as he finished putting away the final book in his pile, “there are plenty of non-traditional publishers these days. And while that kind of thing would definitely look odd to the average person, I don’t think it would give away the big supernatural secret. It would probably look like the work of unusually dedicated fantasy nerds.”

Peter flipped through the recipes. 

“I suppose this does explain Derek’s new diet.” He closed the book. “I didn’t realize Derek was visiting you, too.”

“Lots of people have come through here. Derek likes to keep a low profile, but he’s always going to be invested in the future of Beacon Hills.” 

“Lots of people, hm?” Peter raised his eyebrows. “I haven’t seen Lydia and Jordan for months. I wasn’t even sure they still lived in town.”

Stiles scoffed. “As if there are any supernaturals living in this city that you aren’t aware of.”

Peter paused, then inclined his head in grudging agreement. 

“You keep track of everything that happens here,” Stiles continued, “but your leadership skills could use some work.”

“Leadership skills?” Peter repeated drily. “I’m not what you’d call a…pack animal these days.”

“Hilarious.” Stiles rolled his eyes. “Weren’t you the one who was so concerned about having your fellow wolves around you?”

“I had a goal then,” Peter muttered. “I haven’t needed anyone for a long time.”

“Hmmm,” Stiles said. “And I have seen Lydia and Jordan recently. I’m supposed to get lunch with them tomorrow, in fact. Interested in joining us?”

Peter hesitated, feeling wrong-footed. He’d been sort of emergency backup for Scott’s pack since the younger members had left for college, but he hadn’t ever integrated himself. He tended to think of himself as…pack-adjacent. 

“Where are you meeting them?” he hedged. 

“That sushi place you like,” replied Stiles easily. 

Peter scowled, sensing he was being manipulated. He _did_ love that sushi place. And he hadn’t been in for at least a week. 

“I’ll text you the details tonight,” Stiles promised. 

“We’ll see. If I have time.”

“Yeah, all right.” Stiles smirked. They both knew Peter’s time was spent day-trading, reading, or sticking his nose into everything happening in Beacon Hills. Nothing, in other words, that would prevent him from stuffing himself with fish at the noon hour. 

“What are you doing the rest of tonight?” Peter asked. 

Stiles stilled for a few seconds, expression indecipherable. 

“Not much,” he said eventually. “Maybe take a walk through the preserve.” There was another pause. “Would you…like to come along?”

“I was planning to run a patrol there later,” said Peter. 

“Okay.” Stiles straightened up around the room then flipped off the main lights and made sure everything was locked up. 

Peter stood where he was, watching quietly and wondering why he had taken the first step in making their relationship something more than coffee and snark. Maybe it was the strange light in Stiles’s eyes when he finished with Scott. Maybe it was the new confidence. Maybe it was the broad shoulders. All Peter was sure of was that Stiles, who had intrigued him even as a coltish teenager, had become too compelling to ignore. 

Stiles went into his office to shut down his computer and emerged with the spare sweater and an old pair of jeans. Peter put them on, smelling Stiles all around him and curiously unthreatened by it. He told himself it was because Stiles wasn’t a threat. 

They rode together in Stiles’s old Jeep to the preserve. The noises the aging truck made were much less tortured than Peter recalled. 

“I’m amazed you’ve kept this scrap pile running,” he said. 

“Don’t insult the Jeep or this trip ends now,” replied Stiles with a severe look. Peter raised his hands in a peace-making gesture. “And, yes, I’ve made a few improvements. Druidic arts don’t usually mix with machinery, but my particular brand of…sparkiness means I can get creative with what I want to do. I think this little darling will run as long as I want her to.” 

Peter was impressed, although he was certain to keep any suggestion of it off his face. His experience with druids and other magic-workers tended to be of the herbs and blood rituals variety. Peter had found their work terrifying at times, but never particularly practical. 

Stiles drove them to the east entrance and parked the Jeep. He and Peter walked side by side into the first stand of trees, the darkness thick under leafy branches. Peter let his eyes glow, his superior senses picking out flickers of movement from nocturnal animals. Stiles began to move forward, unhesitating and loose-limbed, and Peter wondered how a human could see anything beyond the occasional shaft of moonlight in a sparse patch of the forest. 

Peter concentrated on letting the sights, sounds, and smells of the land come to him. Night-blooming jasmine perfumed the air around them; dry, summer bracken crackled beneath their feet. The wind blew softly through tight-woven branches overhead, and nocturnal birds trilled quietly. It was one night among thousands of nights in the forest, and Peter had loved each of them. This was his home and he knew it intimately. 

As they continued on, however, he began to see flashes of the unfamiliar. A gnarled tree bent in a shape he’d never seen. A flower that smelled sweet but foreign. 

Eventually, Stiles stopped in front of a half-circle of oak trees. At the center point of the crescent, an enormous stump rose from the ground, its surface easily large enough to hold three fully grown adults lying side by side. 

Peter frowned, glancing around uncertainly at the forest, as though it had deceived him. The landscape was, again, both familiar and strange, tickling his brain and making him wonder if he had dreamed this part of the preserve or somehow forgotten it. 

Stiles ignored him and climbed up onto the stump, kneeling close to its surface to examine something. Peter moved forward slowly, and saw a sturdy-looking shoot growing from the stump’s ragged top. Stiles had his hands cupped around it, and was murmuring to it in a coaxing, gentle tone. Peter couldn’t make out the words, but the little growth was quivering and, unlikely though it seemed, _brightening_ somehow as Stiles continued to speak. 

“How did you find the nemeton again?” Peter ventured once Stiles had leaned back and quieted. 

“It called me,” said Stiles, nonchalant. He turned a grin up to Peter. 

“It called you. And it seemed like a good idea to answer? After everything?”

“The nemeton isn’t a force for good or evil. It’s not malicious. If it can care about anything, it cares about the land, about things being in harmony.”

“Balanced, you mean?” Peter recalled several overly long sermons on the topic from druids of his acquaintance.

“I mean harmony,” replied Stiles, leaping down lightly from the stump. Peter saw the surface wasn’t so bare anymore—there was the leafy offspring Stiles had whispered to, but also a fine dusting of plush, black-green moss and a sprinkling of tiny, cream-colored blossoms. 

Stiles led the way out, and after a few minutes, Peter knew exactly where they were. For all that, however, he found he couldn’t pinpoint how to return to the nemeton. 

“So, sushi tomorrow?” Stiles asked. “Made up your mind yet?”

 _How about dinner now_ , Peter thought. He was driven by a sudden, bizarre impulse to bring down a deer, slaughter it with his claws and teeth, rip out its heart, and present to Stiles the choicest pieces, the tenderest offering. He could imagine it so vividly he faltered for a second. 

“Everything okay?” Stiles put a hand to Peter’s shoulder and Peter felt branded. 

“Fine,” he responded shortly, sliding out from under Stiles’s grasp. He banished the bloody vision from his head and stalked ahead. “Sushi is fine. Tomorrow. Lunch. I’ll see you there. I need to run.” 

Without waiting for more than Stiles saying okay, Peter took off, letting his lungs expand and fill with night air, heedless of his bare feet. He needed to get away from the odd urges and disquieting attraction Stiles brought out in him. He would worry about it later; for now, he could give the wolf the reins and run from the things he didn’t want to face. 

It might not be the most honorable strategy, but Peter had never been the sort of creature who was more interested in principles than results.

+

Peter showed up at his favorite sushi place ten minutes after noon, which made it ten minutes later than the time Stiles had texted him the night before. He had decided the urge to present Stiles with a fresh kill was the result of too much moonlight and possibly some temporary, magic-induced pheromone disorder brought on by the nemeton. Peter had cleaned up from his run and fallen into a deep sleep at home, then woken the next morning feeling rested and energized. 

He had dressed with care bordering on fussiness, but it was worth the sight of Stiles’s appreciative once-over when Peter approached his table. 

Lydia and Jordan were already there, snacking on edamame. When Peter slipped into the booth beside Stiles, Lydia raised her perfectly shaped eyebrows and turned to Stiles with an indecipherable expression.

“Really?” she asked. 

“I’m starving,” Stiles replied, looking down at the menu to avoid her stare. “I wonder if they still have that sour plum roll.”

“So, Peter,” said Jordan politely, “how have you been? I don’t think we’ve seen you since the winter holidays.”

“Keeping busy,” said Peter with a shrug. “How’s the sheriff’s office?” 

“Also busy,” Jordan said. 

“There was a case a few months ago that I thought for sure was going to result in the end-times,” Stiles interjected. “My dad told me about it after the fact, but it turns out there was this group of demon-worshipping wendigos who’d somehow gotten a hold of a…well, I don’t know what the official name is, but it sounded a lot like a doomsday ritual to me.”

“They were very close to completing it,” Lydia added. “The premonitions I had were migraine-inducing.”

Peter took a sip of water. 

“Funny thing,” said Jordan. “The sheriff and I were all set to do battle and save what we could of the town. We even had some of Scott’s pack with us. Argent, too. But when we got to the appointed place, we just found a bunch of dead wendigos and what looked like the remains of a big fire.”

“Dad said they were poisoned,” Stiles put in. “And then all their magic shit was burned.” He turned his bright eyes to Jordan, a small smile playing around the edges of his mouth. “Ever figure out who your anonymous savior was?”

“A mystery for the ages,” said Jordan. “Although nothing much surprises me in Beacon Hills. For all I know, it was a minor deity.”

Peter choked a little on his water. 

“Well, I did some digging after dad told me about it,” said Stiles, “and it turns out the savior of Beacon Hills—well, savior from that particular disaster, at least—is sitting right here.” 

He turned to Peter expectantly. Peter hesitated. He wasn’t averse to hearing his accomplishments lauded—modesty wasn’t exactly one of his dominant characteristics. But at the same time, he hadn’t started his supernatural clean-up work to impress anyone. Beacon Hills was his city, his territory, the domain of Hales stretching back hundreds of years. Peter might not be an alpha, he might not have a pack, but he could at least keep interloping monsters from damaging his home. 

Peter cleared his throat and signaled to the waitress that they were ready to order. 

“I couldn’t wait for the sheriff’s department to show up, and Scott ignored my warnings,” he muttered as she approached. “The wendigos didn’t belong here, and I didn’t want to have to drive to San Francisco to get sushi after Beacon Hills was dragged into a fiery pit.” 

“An excellent point,” Stiles approved. He then put in an order for more sushi than Peter felt someone of his size ought to be able to hold. But then Stiles was surprising in many ways. 

When their food arrived, Peter focused on enjoying every clean, cool bite. Lydia swallowed a few mouthfuls of nigiri before setting her chopsticks down and fixing Peter with a steady gaze. 

“You’re the one who’s been picking up the slack,” she said levelly. 

Peter, halfway through his meal and annoyed at having his epicurean moment of ecstasy interrupted, nodded. 

“Beacon Hills is my home. It’s sheltered the Hales for generations.” He wiped his mouth fastidiously. “And I suppose, to be fair, Derek does help me out at times.” 

“Anyone else help you out?” Jordan asked. 

“Malia, occasionally. Cora. Argent once or twice, when things were urgent.” Peter tapped his chin thoughtfully. “And there was a point when that small, angry boy was home from college and I needed someone else to help with certain disposal issues. Liam, perhaps?” 

“I never think of you as working well with others,” said Lydia. 

“I don’t,” Peter told her, face serene. 

“That’s a lot of cooperation for a loner,” Jordan pointed out.

“Pack behavior is a hard habit to abandon,” said Stiles with another quirk of his lips. “Even for the very stubborn.” 

“I’m not part of Scott’s pack,” Peter said firmly. 

“Yeah, I know.” Stiles dug into the last of his sour plum rolls and made a blissful noise. “I think we need dessert.”

Peter stared at the myriad empty plates in front of Stiles and blinked. 

“Where does it all go?” 

“Hey, running a bookstore and a coffee bar, not to mention living in a magical nexus town, takes a lot of calories, dude,” replied Stiles, indignant. He smiled at their waitress when she walked past their table and asked her for a scoop of green-tea ice cream covered in tempura batter and fried. 

Peter didn’t bother to conceal his disgust, which Stiles ignored. When he’d finished his stomach-bomb of a dessert, Stiles paid the entire bill over the protests of everyone else. 

Outside the restaurant, Jordan gave Peter his and Lydia’s contact information and a brief but searching look. Peter, slightly baffled, accepted both without comment. Jordan and Lydia left for their car and Stiles tagged along with Peter to his, smelling oddly of satisfaction. 

“Headed back to the shop?” Peter asked him. 

“Yeah, for a bit. After work I might go over to Derek’s. He and Cora wanted a rematch for a game we were playing. I didn’t realize Derek was a gamer.”

“He’s all right at it, I suppose,” Peter granted with a tilt of his head.

“He’s great,” protested Stiles. “He beat me and Cora.” 

“Who do you think got him into gaming a few years ago?”

“You’re Derek’s gaming sensei?” Stiles looked thrilled. “You should join us! Maybe we can do teams. You can be on my team.”

“We’ll see.” Peter unlocked his car. 

“Nine-thirty tonight,” Stiles called as Peter got into the driver’s seat. 

Peter waved at him without committing. He took the long way home and stopped for a coffee at a shop Stiles didn’t own. Back at his apartment, Peter opened his laptop to check on his investments and write a critical review of the coffee shop he’d just patronized. 

He had an email from Deucalion, who was living in Maine and running a clinic for supernatural creatures with disabilities or recovering from injuries. Deucalion knew everyone, and he had helped Peter expand his network so that he had more options when it came to fending off the inevitable dangers that came to Beacon Hills. In return, Peter last year had helped Deucalion set up fundraising practices for his organization, and somehow been roped into attending a few events. He had anticipated a fair amount of social ostracization, given his dramatic return to conscious life—unbalanced mental state, single-minded murder spree, etcetera—but somehow Deucalion smoothed things over, and Peter was now…rehabilitated to a certain extent in the eyes of the greater supernatural community. 

It was all very unexpected. 

Peter caught up on his personal correspondence and read until it was time to start dinner. He moved around his kitchen on autopilot, readying a meal of roast chicken and green salad without putting much thought into it. 

His mind was on Stiles. Stiles, who was clearly plotting something. When the chicken was done, Peter set his table and ate his dinner methodically, although he felt restless. He’d expected Stiles to make more of an effort to get Peter into Scott’s pack, but so far Stiles hadn’t done anything. Although, to be fair, Peter didn’t think even _Scott_ was doing much with Scott’s pack. 

When nine-fifteen rolled around, Peter considered starting the next chapter in his book. 

At nine-twenty, he gave up trying to read and admitted he was going to go to Derek’s place. The realization did not put him in a charitable mood, which meant he beat Derek, Cora, and Stiles at every game they suggested and did it with prejudice. Despite their grumbling, Peter could tell none of them was really upset. 

In fact, there was something almost…comfortable about spending time together. Something that resonated inside Peter’s brain and reminded him of the days when Talia was the Hale alpha and they all lived in each other’s pockets, coming and going and always assured of company and affection. 

At an unreasonably late hour, Peter finally left Derek’s loft. To his surprise, both Cora and Derek walked him to the door, sleepily scent-marking him and seeming to expect the same in return. Slowly, Peter ran his cheek down their exposed necks, heart in his own throat and a strange, hot, protective feeling coursing through his bloodstream. 

Stiles watched from the couch, raising a friendly hand in farewell as Peter nearly stumbled from the loft. That same satisfied smell from Stiles followed him out. 

+

Peter was at the grocery store when he encountered Sheriff Stilinski over a display of summer tomatoes. The sheriff had a half-full paper bag of gnarled heirlooms in various colors and Peter froze for a second before giving Noah a small smile. 

“Sheriff,” Peter said, nodding politely. 

“Hale,” the sheriff replied, taking his time deciding between two similar-looking yellow tomatoes. “Stiles tells me you’re a regular at his shop.”

“Well.” Peter couldn’t get a read on Noah’s feelings. “He makes an excellent espresso.”

Noah inclined his head in what Peter chose to interpret as agreement.

“I understand the town owes you its thanks for that wendigo doomsday situation.”

“Oh, that.” Peter put three random tomatoes in a bag and made a dismissive gesture. “Turning Beacon Hills into a smoking crater isn’t really my idea of boosting the real estate market. The Hale family still owns half of Main Street, you know. Just…protecting my investments.”

“Right.” Noah finally settled on one of the yellow tomatoes and gently placed it in his bag. “We at the sheriff’s department appreciate your zeal on that front, anyway.” He put the bag into his shopping cart and turned back to Peter, gaze speculative. “I make a mean caprese salad. Stiles grows the basil himself. You should stop by for dinner sometime before tomato season ends.”

Peter, shocked, could only watch as Noah pushed his cart away, heading toward the dairy department. The sheriff had invited him to dinner. To enter his home. Break bread with his child. 

Unsettled, Peter abandoned his groceries and went out to his car. He toyed with his phone for a few minutes before calling Stiles’s shop. 

“Beacon Hills Books & Coffee, Stiles speaking.”

“Your father.” Peter paused, frowning.

“Is he okay?” Stiles demanded.

“He was buying tomatoes.”

“…good?” 

“He was buying tomatoes next to me.”

“That werewolf diet book did suggest increased produce intake for a truly healthy mind-body connection,” said Stiles thoughtfully. “It’s great that you’re trying to incorporate more fruits and veggies.”

“Shut up,” ordered Peter, annoyed. 

“Rude,” Stiles commented, and Peter could hear him directing one of his youthful, part-time staff members in the background. 

“He invited me to dinner. Noah Stilinski. Stiles. Your father, a gun-toting, law-upholding, concerned parent of human offspring, invited me, a creature of the night with a history of murder, to dinner.” 

“I mean _human_ is such a limiting term. I have magical sparkiness, you know.” 

“Why would he do that?”

“Because you’ve been protecting the town? Getting rid of the big bads? Not actively hunting helpless mortal-type creatures?” There were muffled sounds, a loud thump, and then Stiles swore under his breath. “I’ve gotta go, Peter. Someone just knocked over an entire display of crystals.”

“That cabinet with the glass front by the north wall?” Peter asked without thinking, having long ago memorized the layout of Stiles’s store. 

“Yeah.” Stiles sighed. “The crystals look fine, but I have to clear the area out and deal with the broken glass. Catch you later.” He hung up and Peter was left staring at his phone screen in the grocery store parking lot, feeling off-balance. 

He was still lost in thought when there was a sharp rap on his window. Peter jerked his head up to see Malia standing next to his car, motioning for him to unlock the doors. Curious as to what she might want, Peter obliged. He and his daughter didn’t have the warmest relationship, but they had come to something of a cautious friendship over the course of her time in college and subsequent move back to Beacon Hills. She was living downtown in an apartment over a bakery and working for the county parks department; Peter gathered that she enjoyed the long hours spent outdoors. 

“What are you doing here?” Peter asked once she had seated herself next to him. 

“Came for ice cream, saw your car. It’s not like a lot of people around here drive one,” she pointed out, eyebrows raised. 

“Work okay?” Peter hazarded. The beginnings of their conversations were often a little stilted, but usually, once they got used to each other again, they bumped along well enough. 

“It’s fine,” Malia answered, shrugging and reclining the seat so she could stretch her legs out. “Just wanted to say hello, I guess.”

Peter looked at her sprawl and smiled in spite of himself.

“Hello,” he said. 

Neither of them spoke again for several minutes. Peter cleared his throat. 

“So. Are you…still seeing…the girl you were dating?” Peter wracked his brain for the name of the last relationship Malia had mentioned when he’d seen her a few weeks ago. 

“I broke up with Nicky,” she said casually, lifting one shoulder in a relaxed shrug. “It wasn’t working. She’s dating Scott now, I think. Maybe she has kind of a thing for shifters.” 

“Well, good riddance,” snapped Peter, stung by the idea of anyone dating his daughter who wasn’t wholly invested. “You don’t need to serve as some kind of…fetish fulfillment.” 

“Gross, Peter,” Malia said, wrinkling her nose. “Please never say… _fetish_ …again. Like, ever.” 

“Well, McCall is certainly a step down,” he said. 

“Yeah, I guess.” Another one-shouldered shrug. “Whatever. I never thought it was going anywhere serious. Nicky’s fun, but she’s still figuring herself out. Actually, she’s probably not that great for Scott, either.” 

Peter was torn between _Who cares?_ and _What do you mean?_

“You know,” Malia continued, then stopped. She picked at a loose thread on her shorts, biting her lip in thought. “I’m pretty sure Scott’s not going to find what he’s looking for in anyone he’s dated recently.”

“Oh?” Peter was surprised. Scott had always seemed to throw himself into whatever relationship he was in with single-minded devotion. He was not, Peter imagined, the sort of person who did well without a girlfriend or the promise of a relationship to come. 

“It was one thing when he was just turned. From what Stiles has said, Scott loved the attention at first. And he had a good thing going with Kira. I guess? Anyway. Scott keeps trying to make things _normal_ , like there’s some way for someone who turns into a wolf and goes a little nuts once a month to be an average office drone or something. I don’t know.” Malia put the seat back upright with a brisk exhalation. “Not that he’d talk to me about it. Whenever we hooked up, he was obviously really weirded out by how close I am to my coyote.”

Peter glared at the steering wheel. He preferred to pretend Scott McCall had never done more than exchange greetings with Malia. 

“It’s different with wolves who were turned instead of born,” he said eventually.

“Bullshit,” Malia laughed. “Isaac’s not like that. Even Liam’s not like that. And Liam is a weird little fucker. If anyone should have a problem with the demands of supernatural life, it’s Liam. And he’s fine! I mean, he’s not really, like, a perfect example of dealing with emotional issues, but that has nothing to do with being a wolf.”

“True,” Peter conceded. 

“Okay, I’m going to go buy out the caramel cone ice cream. Nice talk, Peter.” 

Malia popped out of the car, slamming the door behind her. Peter smoothed his hands over the seat she had vacated, lips tightening as he saw the marks from her boots. Well. He supposed he should feel grateful she hadn’t leaned against the paint. 

Peter got take-out for dinner, since his grocery trip had been less than successful. He sat near one of the wide windows in his living room after he’d eaten, letting the warm, evening breeze glide over him as he turned various things over in his head. 

It was less than a week to the full moon. The days leading up to it were the best for night runs. His wolf’s energy was high, his reflexes were sharper, and the forest was abuzz with anticipation of the moon’s power. 

The sun sank below the buildings across from Peter’s apartment and he rose, stretching to his full height and letting his fangs drop. He didn’t need a mirror to know his eyes had taken on a brighter blue glow. He would do a full-shift run, he decided. 

The distance from his home to the preserve wasn’t long enough to justify a car ride, but Peter didn’t like to leave his belongings outside while he ran as a wolf, so he parked near the park entrance and left his things in the car before shifting. 

As they had his whole life, the earth and trees and meadows welcomed him in his wolf form. Peter did a perimeter run first, then loped into the heart of the forest, ears flicking at small noises. After a while, he picked up the sounds of two other wolves. On the next loop he ran, Cora and Derek, also fully shifted, trotted beside him. Cora’s tongue lolled briefly in a canine grin and Peter felt something stutter in his heart at the nearly forgotten sensation of a pack run with no greater purpose than enjoyment. 

Derek bumped his shoulder slightly before falling a little behind and to Peter’s left. Cora took a similar position on Peter’s right, and they ran together for a mile or so. Peter heard soft crackling of underbrush, then another wolf, rangy and lanky, joined them. Isaac, Peter recognized from scent. He tensed for a second, but Derek and Cora seemed unsurprised and welcoming. Isaac fell into their pace, but soon he and Cora had fallen behind, playfully knocking into each other. 

Peter and Derek paused, indulgent as the two younger wolves rolled around on the forest floor. Peter sat back on his haunches, prepared to wait, but Derek tackled him and he leapt free instinctively, growling. Derek’s ears went back in apology and he waited to see what Peter would do. Cora and Isaac, quieted by Peter’s growl, were still and silent as well, watching. Peter considered simply returning to his car and leaving the younger wolves to entertain themselves. 

Instead, he sprang forward, pinning Derek and nipping at his flanks, then retreating, but not so far that Derek couldn’t follow. Derek hesitated for a second and then committed to the game, chasing Peter deeper into the trees, yipping excitedly while Cora and Isaac scrambled after him. They were running through the north end of the preserve when Peter saw the lean form of a coyote on the ridge above them. Malia, he realized. She leapt down to join them and Peter was oddly pleased to see how quickly the wolves absorbed her into their game.

They played for hours, until collapsing, exhausted and content, on a spread of plush moss by the stream. Peter’s sides heaved as he caught his breath, and he cast an eye over Cora, Isaac, Derek, and Malia, ensuring they were only worn out and not injured. As all five slowly regained their strength, the four younger shifters crept closer to Peter, scent marking each other and angling their bodies so he could do the same for them. 

The scents of fur and grass and clover filled Peter’s nostrils and he curled up in a pile with his fellow shifters, settled and as close to content as he could recall being. Things in Peter’s mind had clicked into place, and he let his eyes close, confident in what he should do next. 

+

Peter waited for Monday, when Beacon Hills Books & Coffee was closed, to strike. He casually broke into the store, because the only real impediment to entry were Stiles’s wards, which Stiles had nulled for Peter a while ago. Mere physical locks didn’t do much to keep out a determined werewolf, Peter had found. Of course, that didn’t mean the wards wouldn’t alert Stiles to someone entering.

He got Stiles’s enormous espresso machine heating up and leafed through a book on magical cantrips in Stiles’s office while he waited. 

Peter had barely finished making a coffee when Stiles showed up, dressed in a stretched-out t-shirt and ratty jeans, and sporting truly impressive bedhead. Also a sleepy scowl. 

“Why did you ruin my locks, Peter?” he demanded. 

“Consider it payback,” replied Peter, then took a sip of his latte. 

“What are you talking about?” hedged Stiles, running a hand through his hair to flatten it and accomplishing nothing. 

“I was annoyed that you think you can keep me in the dark about your plans. You can consider the cost of replacing your broken locks a small form of recompense.”

“You were annoyed so now I have to deal with calling out a locksmith?” Stiles sighed. 

“Did you think you were dealing with someone above petty revenge?” Peter raised his eyebrows. 

“I guess not.” 

“I’m very curious, Stiles,” Peter said. He set down his coffee and prowled closer to Stiles, slowly backing him into the counter. Stiles went without complaint.

“Curious about what?” Stiles asked, letting Peter into his space, until their faces were only a few inches apart. 

Peter put his hands on the counter behind Stiles, caging him in. He let his eyes glow a little and saw Stiles’s pupils dilate just a bit. He began to smell of excitement and arousal, but also that same satisfaction Peter had noticed before. 

“You’re scheming. You think you can manipulate everyone into moving like pieces on a chess board. You think you can direct _me_ and control _me_.” Peter stared at the bright amber of Stiles’s eyes. “I’m not doing anything else until I know what’s going on.” 

“That’s a big question, Peter,” said Stiles, edging back until he was reclining on his elbows with Peter above him. 

“Try to break it down into small pieces,” suggested Peter with a toothy smile. 

“You’re the center piece,” Stiles told him, returning the feral smile. 

“Oh,” breathed Peter, and he leaned down farther, his lips coming within a hair’s breadth of Stiles’s mouth before dropping down to graze Stiles’s throat instead. Stiles released his breath in a long exhale and Peter felt a telltale hardening against his thigh. 

“Not now,” Stiles said, voice unsteady. He pushed Peter back and Peter allowed himself to be maneuvered. 

“All right,” agreed Peter, his gaze roving over Stiles’s body. “Not now, then.”

“Later,” Stiles promised, straightening. Peter took a step back, but remained close enough to see the minute changes of expression on Stiles’s face. 

“No escape then,” Peter said, and Stiles flushed just a tiny amount. 

“Later,” he said again, then cleared his throat. 

“Later,” Peter echoed. “And _now_ , you tell me what’s going on. What kinds of clever webs has your mind been spinning?”

“The territory needs rehabilitation,” Stiles began. “It’s been ailing since Gerard Argent damaged the nemeton, and after the Hales went down, things got…really bad. The power that birthed the nemeton is still here, but it’s been…hmm. Damaged. There were attempts to harness it for purposes other than serving the earth, the territory. That’s no good, you know. Twisting things out of their natural state. It’s unhealthy.” 

“Hence the influx of dangerous supernatural creatures and the mayhem, destruction, and merry hell that passes for an average Friday night in Beacon Hills, I assume,” said Peter, thoughtful. 

“The territory needs its guardians restored,” Stiles said. “It needs to be tended and nurtured. It needs the wolves to return, and it needs a pack emissary. It needs an alpha.”

“It has an alpha,” replied Peter, although his stomach clenched at the idea of that leader being Scott McCall. Scott, who rarely ran the length of his land, who barely knew its metes and bounds, who cowered from his own potential for savagery on a full moon instead of learning to direct it. 

“Hm,” was all Stiles said to that. 

“I assume you’re to be the emissary?” 

“Eventually,” Stiles said. 

Peter considered what Stiles had said, another question occurring to him.

“The nemeton. When we went to see it, there was so much growth. Is that…you?”

“Some,” said Stiles. “It needs energy and magic. It needs to be tended and nurtured, too, just like the land around it. In the past, it would have been able to defend itself, to a certain degree. At full strength, the nemeton would help the pack’s emissary, not just depend on that person to provide for it. But our nemeton is regaining its strength.”

“How?” asked Peter. 

“It helped a lot that I returned to the nemeton the person who did it the most harm,” replied Stiles. 

Peter blinked, taken aback. 

“You…found Gerard?” he asked, disbelieving. 

“And returned him to the nemeton. Very…symmetrical. Or circular? It was like closing a circuit, you could say. The energies are more in line now.” 

A vision of twisting vines and squeezed limbs and primal satisfaction filled Peter’s mind and he shrugged it off. 

“And what about the last emissary? Dr. Deaton?” Peter wasn’t entirely certain he wanted the answer.

“Retired. As I said.” Stiles looked at him with gleaming eyes and an unreadable expression. 

“He wasn’t…isn’t…like you.”

“No. People with a spark can be druids, but not all druids have the spark,” said Stiles. “The traditional emissary duties can be conducted by either type of druid, but if it’s someone with an intrinsic grasp of magic, then the options for what an emissary can accomplish increase.”

“Hm.” Peter moved so he was sitting back against the counter next to Stiles. He drank some more of his coffee. 

“I see you didn’t make one for me,” Stiles observed, pouting. 

“Didn’t want it get cold,” said Peter with a shrug. “You know how the machine works.”

Stiles ground some coffee beans and tamped them into a puck while Peter sipped at his drink and thought some more. 

“You’ve assembled an unusual pack. Untraditional,” Peter said. 

“A long time ago, before you were born, even, packs included more than just werewolves. Especially packs formed around a nemeton-guarded territory.” Stiles finished making the espresso and foamed the milk. 

“It’s going to be a very powerful group,” Peter mused. “Wolves and coyotes, a banshee and a hellhound. A hunter. A sheriff.” He eyed Stiles, assessing. “A spark.” 

“Beacon Hills is never going to be a restful place,” said Stiles with a shrug. “From what I’ve gathered, it’s always needed strength to keep things from flying out of control. You’ve seen what it’s been like since the nemeton was cut down and Talia was taken out. The kind of crazy shit that I dealt with in high school? The way things were even last year when I was out of the country? You handled a lot of it, Peter, but it can’t continue.” He made a lopsided leaf with milk foam. “If the territory keeps going the way it was a few months ago, worse things will happen. Scarier things will be drawn here.”

“What are you going to do, Stiles?”

“Oh, I’ve done a lot of it already,” Stiles assured him. He took a large drink of his coffee and got a bit of milk on the corner of his mouth. Peter resisted the urge to lick it off and silently handed him a napkin instead. 

“I see,” said Peter, suspicions confirmed. “Then I suppose the next step is to pay a visit to Scott.”

“You’re very smart,” Stiles said admiringly, batting his eyelashes. 

Peter rolled his eyes. 

“Finish your coffee,” he directed. “Caffeine first, plots second.”

+

Scott was waiting in the preserve when Stiles walked through the gate. Peter, perched in a tree downwind and silent, watched the way they reacted to each other. How Stiles held himself back, as though he wanted to reach for Scott but refrained. Scott looked impatient and defensive, tucked into himself and tense. 

A distant memory came to Peter of the woods at night: Two boys talking excitedly, their bodies swaying toward each other with the ease of long friendship. Maybe they’d still have that if he hadn’t…if their lives hadn’t taken a hard turn into the supernatural lane. 

Then Peter thought of the threats to Beacon Hills over the years, the damaged nemeton, the inevitable chaos that would continue. He settled back against the broad tree trunk and waited to see things play out. 

“You said this was important, Stiles, so tell me what’s going on,” Scott said, crossing his arms. 

“You ever wish…” Stiles shoved a hand through his hair and cleared his throat. 

“I have a date soon, sorry,” said Scott. “I don’t know why we had to meet all the way out here. Is everything okay?”

“No,” Stiles said firmly, and seemed to regain his purpose. “No, it’s not okay.” He took a breath. “Did Dr. Deaton ever tell you exactly why he wanted to do all those rituals with you?”

Scott blinked and uncrossed his arms, confused. 

“He said…the true alpha thing. You know, that I couldn’t take any lives. But it meant I needed to, uh, maintain my energy? I think it had to do with the territory, like, feeding me? I’m not sure exactly what he meant, but it never hurt or anything.”

“Feeding you.” Stiles shuddered slightly. “Yeah, I guess it was.” He paced a few steps then stopped. “Listen, whatever he told you, it wasn’t healthy for the territory or the land or the nemeton for you to do those rituals. This whole _true alpha thing_ was his invention.”

Scott stared at him, face turning angry.

“What does that mean? My eyes are red, man. I have alpha strength. I broke through a mountain ash circle! And-and Dr. Deaton said I was the best, that I had strength and, uh, conviction and…that meant I could be an alpha without having to just _take_ the power.”

“But you did take the power,” said Stiles. “Maybe you weren’t the one conducting the…the _siphoning_ , but your red eyes and extra strength…that’s from the territory, not some kind of inner mojo. The spillover from those rituals went to the druid conducting them. Your power came from Deaton’s power. Which was stolen from the nemeton and the territory. It weakened them so you two could be strong. It’s all wrong, Scott.”

“The nemeton is too strong!” Scott blurted, and Stiles’s eyes narrowed.

“What do you mean by that?” 

“Deaton told me—he said it was about balance. He said we had to drain the nemeton or it would be strong enough to do evil again.”

“The nemeton is what protects Beacon Hills,” Stiles snapped. “It’s not good or evil on its own. Haven’t you noticed a massive increase in bad shit as you did more and more energy-draining rituals?”

“I mean, maybe a little, but Deaton said it might take time to balance out—”

“Scott.” Stiles put his hands on Scott’s shoulders and stared at him. “Have you even been patrolling?”

“Deaton said—” Scott broke off and stepped back, letting Stiles’s arms drop away from him. “I don’t know. I guess maybe I didn’t want to know. It’s still a lot. The rituals helped me feel strong and good, like I still had a purpose.”

“You did have a purpose,” Stiles pointed out. “Protecting the town.”

“Yeah, but what about the rest of my life?” Scott sounded sad. “I want to get married. I want to have kids and a normal job and not have to feel so fucking guilty for having that because it means other people are hurting. Deaton just…he made it sound so easy. He told me I was doing the right thing. I wanted to be doing the right thing.”

“And you wanted your life back,” said Stiles, nodding. “You’re not a bad person, Scott. But maybe you’re a bad werewolf.”

Scott jerked his head back, as if Stiles had slapped him.

“It’s not an insult,” Stiles said. “You never chose this life. And I don’t think you’re happy…are you?”

Scott crossed his arms again, this time in what looked like an attempt at comfort. 

“I don’t know. Sometimes I just want to go back to that night and tell you to fuck off and find the dead body yourself.” His laugh was tinged with bitterness. 

“Sometimes I wish the same thing,” Stiles muttered. “But I have good news for you.”

Peter heard a terrible mix of compassion and determination in Stiles’s voice and he tensed in anticipation. 

“You’re a werewolf through the bite of an alpha. The transformation you make into a wolf is physiological, and your body is different now…but those changes came about through magic. Just…magic. The born werewolves have that magic inside them, it’s, um, intrinsic. Like my magic, my spark. You can’t separate the person from the creature because they’re the same thing. Bitten wolves, though…well, let’s say it’s possible to fix things.”

“What?” Scott demanded, breathing hard. “There’s no way to undo this. You _know_ that! Even Derek’s bullshit idea about killing the wolf that turned you wasn’t right.”

“Yeah, that was pretty idiotic,” Stiles agreed. “But there is a way to change a bitten wolf back. It’s magic, Scott. The bite is magic, and what’s given with magic can be taken away. It’s not easy, and it needs a lot of energy and power. A regular druid would never think about it; it would be in the realm of impossibility. But for someone very powerful, someone with the weight and soul of the territory…well, it’s not so impossible.”

“Is that…what if I don’t want that?” 

“I think you do want it,” Stiles said, implacable. “And the territory needs it. Scott, you aren’t the guardian Beacon Hills needs. You want a different life.”

“I don’t know—” Scott was backing farther away, eyes beginning to glow. “Will I have asthma again? Maybe I could just move away—”

“Your power is now tied to Beacon Hills. To the nemeton. Deaton didn’t do you any favors there.” Stiles walked forward, until Scott was pressing against a tree and Stiles was less than a foot in front of him, hands raised. 

“Do it fast,” Scott whispered, closing his eyes. 

Stiles let his breath out in a soundless sigh, and Peter, even at a distance, could see the grief in his face. 

“As it was,” Stiles murmured, and Peter had to look away from the brightness of the light that suddenly shone between his fingers. When he turned back, Scott was sprawled on the ground and Stiles knelt next to him, squeezing his hand. 

Scott sat up abruptly, wrenching free of Stiles’s grasp with a pained noise. 

“It’s done,” said Scott in disbelief. “I can’t—there’s nothing there anymore.”

“Do you—”

“I need some space.” Scott staggered up, pushing Stiles away as he ran unevenly toward his motorcycle. 

Stiles let him go, solemn eyed and trembling. 

Peter waited a few minutes, until even he could no longer hear the whine of the motorcycle’s engine. Then he dropped from the tree and stalked toward his spark. 

“Do it,” he told Stiles firmly. “I can see you won’t be able to hold it in for much longer.”

Stiles turned to face him, eyes incandescent with the forces he’d absorbed. 

“So be it,” Stiles breathed out, and put his hands on Peter’s chest. The light was even brighter than it had been with Scott, and Peter’s body twitched and jerked as the energy from Stiles raced through him. 

It was nothing like the last time he’d become an alpha. It was heat and power, the sense of connection to the earth and the plants and the trees. And the nemeton, rising in his mind like a spreading darkness edged with red and gold. It was familiar and terrifying and welcoming all at once. Peter bent before it and felt its presence root into his mental topography, a flowering tree in the landscape of his mind. 

He opened his eyes, seeing the crimson blaze of his own eyes reflected back at him from Stiles’s. 

“Guardian,” Stiles said. “Alpha.” 

Peter blinked and took hold of Stiles’s hand. 

“Thank you,” he said. "Emissary."

“Do a better job this time,” Stiles replied. “Also.”

“Yes?” Peter raised his eyebrows. 

“I’m looking for a barista. Part time.” 

“Are you finally acknowledging my skills?”

“Which skills are we talking about here?” Stiles smirked a little, glancing at Peter from beneath his lashes. 

“Why don’t we go back to the shop, do a trial run.”

“Hmm.” Stiles licked his lips. 

Peter let his eyes glow, the scent of Stiles’s satisfaction twining around him.


End file.
